Chapter 8 Eamon
Chapter eight
Eamon
I'd left Mac standing in his aunt's driveway three hours ago. The look on his face—confused, maybe hurt—stayed with me the entire drive.
Leaving felt wrong. Felt like abandoning my post.
Staying would have been worse.
I couldn't see the threats clearly anymore. Not with Mac looking at me like I was someone worth knowing instead of someone who'd let a stalker get close enough to touch him.
The market kept replaying in my head. The grey coat. The bump. Mac stumbling forward. And me, six feet away, thinking about ceramic shops and spiced cider instead of scanning the crowd properly.
Three years ago, I'd hesitated. My client died.
Today, I'd been distracted. And someone put their hands on Mac.
So I'd called Marcus. Made sure he came armed, protecting his boyhood home.
Confirmed the stalker's timeline messages indicated preparation phase, not immediate action.
Drove south to Michael's house, where I could spread out surveillance photos on a table instead of trying to work around Ma McCabe's anxiety and Mac's presence.
Where I could think without Mac watching me like I was someone he trusted not to fail again.
Professional distance. That's what I needed.
I'd clenched my hands on the steering wheel for ninety minutes straight. When I flexed them twice before killing the engine, the tendons protested. I'd rented a truck for the drive down to Oregon, one more subtle attempt to throw the stalker off track.
Michael's driveway was gravel under two inches of December mud. Garden tools leaned against the porch rail—a spade crusted with dirt, a pitchfork, and pruning shears hung from a hook. Through curtained windows, amber warmth bled into the wintry mist.
Domestic. Settled. Protected.
My jaw ached from grinding my teeth the entire drive south.
Before I could reach for the door handle, barking erupted from inside. Sharp and uncertain—the sound of a dog deciding whether I was a threat or a visitor.
The front door opened. Michael filled the frame, grinning like we'd planned the visit instead of me texting Need to talk. Coming to you at 11 PM.
"You made it." He stepped aside. "Fair warning—you'll have to pass inspection first."
The dog pushed past his legs. Mid-size, brown eyes fixed on me.
I crouched. Hands loose at my sides, weight on my heels, making myself smaller. My moves came from years of practice, approaching anyone who had reasons not to trust.
She approached in increments. Three steps, pause. Two more, head low. Her nose worked overtime—reading me through scent, building her assessment.
I extended my left hand palm down. Kept it still.
She sniffed once. Twice. Her tongue flicked out and caught my knuckles.
Michael laughed. "Fast approval. She takes weeks with most people."
"Good instincts," I said.
Alex appeared behind Michael's shoulder, wearing a cable-knit sweater and fogged glasses. "Luna's a rescue. She still checks everyone twice. Coffee's on."
Luna leaned against my leg. The pressure was slight but definite. Permission granted.
I stood. My knees cracked.
"You look like hell," Michael said.
"Feels accurate."
"Come inside before you freeze."
The entryway smelled like cedar, woodsmoke, coffee, and cinnamon. I pulled off my boots. Set them beside running shoes and leather loafers. The house revealed itself through intimate details—coats on pegs, mail sorted, and books stacked with bookmarks at different depths. People lived here.
Luna circled back, nudging my hand.
Alex poured coffee into a mug that said "Historians do it with primary sources." Set it in front of the chair facing both doors—the one I would've chosen.
"Cream's in the fridge," he said. "Sugar's on the table. Or you can drink it black and keep pretending you don't need anything."
Michael snorted.
I added nothing to the coffee. Drank it black because he was right—I didn't know how to need things anymore without feeling like a failure.
Luna settled under the kitchen table. Her chin rested on her paws, eyes tracking my movements.
I unrolled the largest photograph. It was Mac at the Reserve Roastery, Christmas lights reflected in copper behind him. The stalker had captured him mid-smile.
My phone buzzed.
Mac: Can't sleep. You make it okay?
The timestamp read 12:47 AM.
Eamon: I'm here. Strategizing. Go to sleep.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
Mac: Be careful driving back
The screen glowed between my hands. He was worried about me. While being stalked, Mac worried about me driving in the rain.
Eamon: Always am
Mac: Liar
Fair.
I set the phone down. Luna had moved closer, sitting beside my chair. She sighed.
"We should call it in." Michael's voice was tight. "My old department would flag this. Get ahead of it."
"With what?" I tapped the Pike Place photo. "Pictures anyone with a telephoto lens could take? Messages I can excuse as concerned observation?"
"They're stalking him."
"Prove it." I looked up. "Show me the violated statute that meets probable cause."
"So we wait for them to show up armed?"
"We wait until we have something that sticks." I pulled the message transcripts from a folder. "Look at the language. Clinical. They're building a case in their own mind. The second we involve police without evidence, we confirm the narrative that we are mishandling Mac."
Michael stood, chair scraping. "That's reactive bullshit and you know it."
Luna rose. Paced once around the table, ears back.
"You want to know what happens when we report early?" My voice was flat, emotionless. "Detective with forty other cases. Stalker's lawyer files harassment charges against Mac. Media picks it up—first openly gay MVP versus anonymous fan. Suddenly, Mac's the villain."
"And if you're wrong? If they move before we're ready?"
"Then I failed. Again."
Silence filled the air between us. Michael set his mug down carefully. Too carefully.
"Walk me through the market again," he said. "The moment she touched him."
I pulled out my phone. Opened the message thread. Turned it toward him.
He read. His jaw tightened with each line.
"She bumped him. Hard enough to make him stumble." I kept my voice flat. Professional. "Grey coat, dark hair, knit cap. Medium height. Disappeared into the crowd before I could—"
"You were right there." Michael's voice was very quiet. Very controlled.
The kind of quiet that meant he was furious.
"You said six feet away."
"Yes."
"And she walked up. Put her hands on my cousin. Made physical contact."
He set the phone down. "While you were standing six feet away."
Alex touched Michael's wrist—a small gesture.
Michael took a breath.
"I was scanning wrong," I said. "Watching for cameras, for someone stationary. She was mobile. Blended with the crowd movement."
"That's the excuse?"
"No. That's the failure."
Silence. Luna whined softly from under the table.
"Is he hurt?" Michael asked finally.
"Physically? No. She bumped him. No bruising, no injury."
"That's not what I asked."
I thought about Mac's face in the car. His shaky hands. "He's scared," I said. "And I made it worse. Proved she can get close whenever she wants."
Michael stood. Walked to the window. Stood there looking out at the rain for a long moment.
"He texted me," Michael said quietly. "Right after. Asked if I could stay with Ma and him tonight. Didn't say why, just—" He turned.
"Mac doesn't ask for help. Ever. You know how hard his mother trained him to handle things himself."
I did know. I'd watched Mac deflect concern with jokes and watched him perform confidence he didn't feel.
"He's terrified," Michael continued. "Someone he can't see has been watching him for eighteen months. Documenting him like a fucking science project. And today she proved she can reach out and touch him anytime she wants."
"I know."
"Do you?" Michael's voice sharpened. "Because you left. Drove three hours south while he's at Ma's house, trying to convince himself he's safe. You're his bodyguard, Eamon. Your job is to be there."
"Marcus is there."
"Marcus isn't who he needs." Michael held my gaze. "You know that."
The accusation hung between us.
"I can't protect him properly when I'm compromised," I said finally. "Today proved that. I was thinking about—" I stopped. "About him. Not the threat."
Michael's expression shifted. Understanding replacing anger. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
Alex cleared his throat. "Maybe we focus on finding her before the debate about who stays where becomes moot?"
Michael nodded slowly. Returned to the table. But his eyes stayed on me—assessing, calculating.
"When you go back," he said, "you tell him what happened. No professional distance bullshit. He deserves to know why you missed her."
"That would be—"
"Honest. It would be honest." Michael leaned forward. "Mac's spent his entire life having people want the symbol instead of the person. Don't be another one who treats him like he's not worth the truth."
I didn't respond. Couldn't.
Luna emerged from under the table. Pressed her nose to my knee.
Michael watched the dog. Watched me. "Luna doesn't trust easily.
Mac doesn't either. You want to know why she bumping into him rattled me so bad?
Because someone violated his space. His body.
And for someone who's had to perform every public interaction for years—someone who treats his own physical presence like a carefully managed resource—that's not just scary. It's intimate violence."
"I know."
"Then act like you know." Michael's voice turned slightly more gentle. "Find her. Before she does worse than bump into him."
I unrolled another photograph from Pike Place. Mac's face caught mid-smile.
Michael looked at it. His expression cracked—just slightly, just for a second. Fear for family broke through the tactical assessment.
"She's good," he said quietly. "Getting these angles. These moments."
"Too good," I agreed. "Which means she's trained. Systematic."